


Intent

by singingwithoutwords (orphan_account)



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Alpha Natasha Romanov, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Attempted Murder, Cigarettes, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Omega Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22262218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/singingwithoutwords
Summary: Natasha Romanov is what people politely call a private eye.  She's not looking to make a name for herself, or even to make it particularly rich.  She just wants to get through life with a bottle of the good vodka and all her limbs intact.  Then Tony Stark wanders into her life, and she starts wanting so much more.If this case doesn't kill her, that man's ass will.abandoned
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton & Tony Stark, Edwin Jarvis & Tony Stark, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Natasha Romanov/Tony Stark
Comments: 20
Kudos: 93
Collections: Tony Stark Bingo 2020





	Intent

**Author's Note:**

> aka Withoutwords Bullshits His Way Through Yet Another Literary Genre
> 
> I'm trying that 'chaptered fic where each chapter fills a different square' thing. Here's hoping I do this right. Tags may be changed/added to because my stories have minds of their own.
> 
>  **card #** : 3016  
>  **square** : T1 - AU: Noir Detective

The omega who slipped through Natasha Romanov’s office door just before close of business was the kind most alphas only saw in their dreams. He was small - if he had more than a couple inches on her own 5 foot 5 she’d give up cigarettes - but sleek, just enough muscle to make a mortal’s mouth water under a suit that probably cost more than her annual rent. His hair was dark and meticulously styled, his shoes polished, his jewelry understated but expensive. When he pulled off his red-tinted sunglasses, there was panic in the depths of his molten-honey eyes.

The panic was only to be expected; folks didn’t come to someone like Natasha unless they were desperate. Unless they were in serious trouble and couldn’t use or had already tried all the more socially acceptable channels. And an omega seeking her out without an escort? That spelled trouble clearer than T-R-O-U-B-L-E.

She sat back in her office chair, bracing one knee against the edge of her desk, and watched him fidget for a moment. Nervous as he was gorgeous, this one.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, tousling it. It still looked good on him.

“My uncle’s trying to kill me.”

No pleasantries, no introductions, no small talk- straight to the point. True desperation there. She kept her face impassive. “Oh?”

“I’m not being paranoid,” he said with a hint of bite. Defensive. He’d had to say this before. “And I’m not hysterical, either. There’ve been two attempts on my life in the past month.”

“Why not go to the cops?”

“Because the chief of police is my uncle’s drinking buddy and the kind of alpha who gives the dynamic a bad name.”

She nodded. That certainly sounded like Ross. Creep never could figure out omegas were people, too.

She leaned over slightly and opened the bottom desk drawer, pulled out two shot glasses and a half-empty bottle of vodka, set all three on the table. “Sit down,” she said. “Have a drink. Tell me why your uncle wants you dead.”

The omega sat in one of the hard wooden chairs she kept around for company and picked up the bottle. He poured two shots and pushed one toward her, tossed the other back himself like he was used to hard booze.

Interesting.

“If I die before I’m bonded, he gets the company. Otherwise it goes to my alpha.”

“What kind of company?”

“Stark Industries.”

Only a lifetime of keeping her feelings hidden as a matter of survival kept Nat from choking on her shot.

Stark Industries was  _ big _ . It dabbled in everything from phones to medical equipment to energy, but its bread and butter was weapons. Bigger, better, more reliable weapons with more kick than anyone else. It was worth billions. Definitely an investment worth killing over.

It also meant that the omega sitting across her desk had to be none other than Tony Stark, high-class genius, sole heir to the Stark legacy since Howard and Maria Stark bought it in a car wreck last year. Rumor had not prepared her.

“Hell of a motive,” she said at length, holding out her glass so he could fill it again. “What exactly do you want me to do?”

“Find me proof Obie’s after me. Keep me alive until he’s taken care of.”

She knocked back another shot, considering. Protection detail wasn’t exactly her main line; she was more of a professional snoop with a side job in necessary murder. Didn’t have the patience to do much babysitting.

Still. Business wasn’t exactly booming, and she had bills to pay. Vodka didn’t buy itself, and neither did cigarettes.

(Plus there was that deep-down alpha part of her that went halfway feral at the thought of letting an omega like that walk away, especially into danger. Not a part she generally listened to, but damn was it growling loud at the moment.)

“Why come to me?”

“You were recommended,” Tony said, smiling slightly. “By a human disaster of our mutual acquaintance.”

Natasha knew a lot of people who could be qualified as disasters of one sort or another, but only one who’d send an omega to her for help. “Clint.”

He nodded, smiling wider. Clint could have that effect on people. “He says you’re the best. And I think it goes without saying that I can pay you to match.”

She hummed and knocked back a bit more vodka. He could at that. If she pulled it off, she might not have to work again for the rest of the decade. Possibly her life.

She upended the shot glass and set it on the desk, sitting up straight and leaning forward. “A grand a day,” she said. “Plus fifty upfront and expenses.”

“Done,” he said instantly. She couldn’t tell if that was the desperation, or just that he had no idea how much money that was to someone who wasn’t a billionaire.

“I’m assuming you want to keep this covert?”

“I’d prefer it. It’s probably better not to let Obie know I’m onto him just yet.”

“Do you have a suitor?”

He blinked at her, obviously thrown by the question, then shrugged. “A few. None I want.”

Natasha smiled despite herself. She loved undercover work. “You do now.”

It took a moment more, then he smiled back. It was slow and appreciative and unfairly sultry. The man was going to test her willpower, she could tell.

She stood, holding out her hand. He stood as well and took it. His handshake was firm. Confident. Damnably warm. He wasn’t the only one in trouble here.

She was going to kill Clint.

“Glad to be in business with you, Mr. Stark,” she said.

“The feeling is mutual, Ms. Romanov.”

She let his hand go with hidden reluctance, perching on the edge of her desk. “Tell me more about Obie,” she instructed. Once she had the details, she could choose her cover and they could line up their stories.

Hopefully, they would both survive this.


End file.
